


Every Moon in the Sky (Every Promise and Lie)

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Series: Witcher Winters [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drunk Dialing, Drunk Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Talks About Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Yuletide, i didn't know that was a tag but i'll take it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:40:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27883145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: “Must be off on a hunt or something.” Jaskier’s voice is distant, as though he’s speaking to himself. “Figures. That, or he’s ignoring me… You wouldn’t— You wouldn’t ignore me, though, would you? Geralt?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Winters [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038222
Comments: 52
Kudos: 416





	Every Moon in the Sky (Every Promise and Lie)

**Author's Note:**

> Otherwise known as-- Jaskier gets drunk and uses a xenovox to call Geralt. Geralt gets sad and also uses a xenovox to call Jaskier. Plus, the author doesn't know how xenovoxes work.
> 
> I didn't have the chance to edit this as thoroughly as I'd like so I apologize in advance for any and all mistakes!
> 
> I also apologize for the fact that I can't seem to stop writing "Geralt apologizes for the mountain" fics. One day I'll stop, I swear

The xenovox crackles to life just as Geralt returns to the inn. It’s buried in his bags, muffled— another one of those things he forgets he has until it forcefully reminds him of its existence. A bit like that bard who used to follow him, bright-eyed and loud— always so damn loud.

But Jaskier’s not being loud now.

“Geralt,” he whispers through the xenovox, towns and villages and kingdoms away. Geralt digs the thing free, holding it in his hand as though it's foreign— never seen or used before. But Jaskier’s using his now, hushed tones and shaking breaths. “Are— Are you there?”

Geralt’s never heard Jaskier whisper so hesitantly, never heard his voice be anything less than brilliant. He’s a thousand explosions wrapped in soft skin and fine fabrics, a million words always bursting to break free.

On the xenovox, Jaskier takes another trembling breath, and Geralt’s grip on it hardens. He gave Jaskier instructions and his own xenovox years ago— years before their final parting, years before a horrid mountain and awful words. He’d been strict that it’s only for emergencies, only for life-or-death situations. Jaskier’s excitement had dimmed at the time but he never broke that rule.

Jaskier keeps breathing— shaking, halting things— and Geralt’s skin prickles.

Jaskier’s using it which must mean— he’s— _Fuck_ , how far is he? What’s happened? There’s a wrong sound in his voice when he speaks Geralt’s name— has he been stabbed? A lung punctured or his throat wounded once again? Geralt should start pacing, start packing, start demanding to know where Jaskier is because, gods, Geralt can’t imagine anything other than the worse if Jaskier’s been reduced to calling him now, asking for help from someone who hurt him so deeply. Broken bones and bloodied mouths fill Geralt’s mind and he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t focus on anything other than the possibility that—

Jaskier hiccups. It trails into a laugh that trails into an almost sob. 

Geralt’s heard that sound before, and it’s not the noise of a dying man.

“Fuck,” Geralt says, his muscles relaxing so completely he collapses onto the edge of the bed. He keeps the xenovox flat on his palm, ensuring Jaskier can’t hear his slight growl of irritation. “The idiot’s just drunk.”

As if to prove the statement further, Jaskier laughs again. It’s a mirthless sound, caught on the edge of something sharp as it fades into a sigh.

“Must be off on a hunt or something.” Jaskier’s voice is distant, as though he’s speaking to himself. “Figures. That, or he’s ignoring me… You wouldn’t— You wouldn’t ignore me, though, would you? Geralt?”

 _No_ , Geralt longs to say, but his voice catches in his throat. _I’m right here._

“Alright, it was a stupid question, I know. Just thought, maybe, you’d at least pretend to like me enough to say something. Even if it is to tell me to fuck off.” The words lack Jaskier’s typical heat, interrupted by sniffling and cracked sounds.

Geralt’s suddenly alerted to the fact that Jaskier may start _crying_ at some point and— and Geralt doesn’t know how to handle that. Jaskier doesn’t _cry_. He— well, sure. He tears up, sometimes, or falls into fits of melancholy here and there, but what artist doesn’t? It’s always for a few weeks— stiff nights of Jaskier’s maudlin sighing, quiet hours of Jaskier’s eyes dimming and darkening— but he’s never cried. He’s too bright for that, too chipper. Jaskier crying would be like watching an old favored fortress crumble. He yells at hecklers, snaps at bandits and monsters and witcher-haters. For fuck’s flying sake, he’s ranted at Geralt for hours on end.

And, still, Geralt’s safe haven crumbles.

“I don’t mean to bother you. It’s just, well. We were all talking about the things we’re meant to be thankful for— silly traditions and all, you see— and— gods, you’ll laugh at this— I said I was thankful for _you_.” Jaskier’s voice lowers, turning sharp edges back at itself as he laughs brokenly at the end. “After everything, I still can’t help but be grateful for our adventures and time together. Isn’t that silly? You’d hate to be called a blessing.”

Something shifts on the other side, Jaskier brushing against something nearby as he moves. In the dark of the inn room, it’s easy for Geralt to picture the scene now: Jaskier alone in his room at Oxenfurt, leaning against his writing desk with a half-emptied demijohn of his favorite vodka at his side. Past his voice, Geralt picks up the faintest sounds of shouting— playful, excited— and a few words caught in the crowd beyond Jaskier’s home— things like _wreaths_ and _evergreen_ , _ivy_ and _boughs_.

Yule. Geralt had almost forgotten about the holiday but, he supposes, it makes sense with what Jaskier had been talking about, mentioning thankfulness and blessings and all.

But then Jaskier sighs and it’s so fucking miserable that Geralt nearly second-guesses his interpretation of the noise. 

Jaskier— Jaskier _loves_ Yule. He loves all holidays and celebrations, smiling like a crescent moon whenever he’d tell Geralt all about the trees in Oxenfurt, the candles and sun symbols strewed across the snow struck city. Like a child, he’d bounce in place as he’d talk to Geralt about it, promising to bring him back goodies when they meet again in Spring.

Geralt still has a few of the candles Jaskier’s brought for him, though he can’t quite recall what they symbolize or mean other than a bit of happiness from Jaskier.

“Fucking blessings.” Jaskier spits his words even as they break in his mouth, his voice tremoring enough for Geralt to picture the tautness of his muscles, the tight lines around his lips— the shine in his pale blue eyes. “You already got yours, didn’t you? I’m here and you’re fuck knows where saving the world while I’m wasting away in classrooms and taverns. Is this off your hands enough for you? Has life gifted you properly yet?”

Geralt’s sure the xenovox vibrates from the intensity of Jaskier’s voice, the ragged edges that Jaskier used to do his best to avoid. Already, Geralt can smell the teas Jaskier would make— lemon and mint and all the dozen other types he’d purchase from the herbalists in each town. 

Jaskier clears his throat, and Geralt winces at the rough sound it makes.

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t try to fight. It’s not fair on you, is it? To force my hurt feelings back into your list of problems. You've got far worse to worry about, I’m sure.” The next silence is a bit longer than the last, filled with sighing and worried breaths. Geralt grows restless in the quiet, fidgeting in a way he never has before. He pauses only when Jaskier huffs— a sound that could only almost be a laugh. “There are children— goodness, they can’t be older than schoolboys— right outside my window, leaving small platters of sweets at people’s doorsteps. When I was their age, I was doing nothing of the sort. Think I was actually bothering the cooks with my stealing of their finished pastries, actually.”

Geralt snorts— both at the sudden change in topic and the image Jaskier’s painted. Geralt has no doubt that Jaskier was quite the menace in his youth; no one becomes so mischievous overnight, after all. 

“It was worth the rapping on my knuckles, though. The cookies they made back then were to die for.” Jaskier sighs, a small tapping sound filling the air only to stop as suddenly as it came— Jaskier bouncing his fingertips on the desk, forcing himself to stop because someone once told him it was a bad habit. Geralt’s gut twists guiltily. “Have you ever had traditional Yule cakes, Geralt? They’re so sweet, and I don’t think you can buy the proper spices at any other time of year. I always thought you would like them.”

Jaskier’s said as much before, but he’s sandwiched the suggestion between bouts of teasing, his eyes shining each time he glanced over at Geralt and said—

“I’d love to bring you to Oxenfurt,” Jaskier whispers, completing Geralt’s thoughts without meaning to. His voice lowers, an abashed admission he shouldn’t be so afraid to share. “I’ve thought about asking seriously, you know. Twice, I wrote ahead and had them make up another room for you. Gods, Geralt, you’d look so nice in the snow and candlelights. I imagined showing you all my favorite places from my more academic days. We’d try the spiced drinks at the taverns, and you could watch me perform my favorite seasonal songs. We could spend hours just wandering around, watching them put up decorations and— and everyone is so _nice_ at this time of year, Geralt, and I always wondered what your face would look like once you realized that no one here could hate you— that it’s impossible for them to think ill of you because I spend every winter making sure they can’t. And, at the end of the day, we could go to one of the bonfires they have around the city, and you wouldn’t have to worry about finding a place to camp or paying for an inn because I could bring you back to _my_ home, _my_ rooms, and I could take care of you and— and, Geralt, I just thought we’d have a lovely time.”

Wouldn’t they? Like Jaskier’s tales of his youth, this story, too, spreads itself before Geralt in all its colors and vivid detail. They’d enter Oxenfurt just as the holiday season was beginning, and Jaskier would laugh— truly, loudly laugh— at the sight of his favorite time of year. There’d be snow on the ground and in the air, and Geralt doesn’t doubt that Jaskier would try to catch each flake on his tongue. But Geralt would be more struck by the ice stuck to his eyelashes, to the tip of his nose, and the ends of his hair. Geralt would ache to brush it all away but there would be people watching— Jaskier’s friends and colleagues, people who knew him long before Geralt did— and it would be easier to just toss his cloak at Jaskier with a grunt, murmuring about how easy it is for humans to catch sickness from the cold.

And what would they do next? Would Jaskier take his hand and run them through the streets, introducing him to his life with all the joy of a new husband taking his bride home? Would he change the shape of Oxenfurt with his own experiences, his own hidden gems within the city walls, and would he really trust Geralt with each secret he must have kept while there?

Then, in Jaskier’s home— his rooms, this life Geralt’s never seen— would Geralt fit with who Jaskier is when he’s there? Among scholars and artists, the beautiful and talented and educated world? He might try to hide away but Jaskier would toss open the curtains, sticking his head out of windows to smile at the snow on the wind— _Look, Geralt,_ he’d say, _we can have a snow fight before the day is through_. But there’d be a bed there— Jaskier’s bed— and Geralt just might give in, just might wrap his bard into his arms, pressing his nose to the side of his winter-chilled neck until it’s warm again. _Stay inside_ , he might say when, really, he’d just mean _Stay with me—_

He pictures it far too clearly— so caught in the fantasy that he flinches when Jaskier breaks it with a soft scoff.

“Of course, I always told them to cancel the preparations. It’d seem like a good idea but, eventually, I’d realize how stupid I was being,” he says, as though it should be obvious that he couldn’t take Geralt there. “For the best, right? I’m mortified enough as it is that I intruded on your world for so long— the embarrassment of knowing that I’d forced you into mine might have killed me.”

Geralt makes a small wounded noise in the back of his throat— a sound that, later, he’ll never admit to. But his mind focuses only on Jaskier, on the evidence that he believed Geralt when he’d blamed him for ruining his life. Until now, a part of him had hoped that Jaskier had brushed it off as nothing but a tantrum, that he’d left because he was angry— not because he was hurt.

Geralt sucks in a breath at the reminder of his initial reaction to Jaskier’s call. The thought of Jaskier injured or wounded, dying or kidnapped or tortured— for a moment, he can’t breathe. He’d never wanted Jaskier to be hurt, and yet—

“I am sorry for that, you know. For being… too much. I know I can be, but I don’t know how to stop.” Jaskier’s voice shrinks impossibly smaller— it’s not right. “You’ll let me come back one day, won’t you? Just for a bit? Humans don’t live very long, Geralt, and I’d like to see you at least once more. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

There’s nothing about Jaskier that would be troublesome to Geralt; not his songs or jokes, not his mischief or his easy teasing. Geralt would trade a hundred nights of peace for one evening of Jaskier’s presence.

But it’s so much easier to think that than it is to say it.

Jaskier’s quiet, but it’s a different silence now— as if awaiting an answer to his question. Does he suspect that Geralt might be listening? Has he known the whole time? 

No. He’s just drunk and rambling, hopelessly hopeful and not cautious enough with his heart. There’s no chance he’d say such things if he knew that Geralt was waiting on the other side.

Still— Geralt lifts the little box closer to his mouth.

What to say? How to express that Jaskier doesn’t need to ask forgiveness— that it was always Geralt’s fault? How to tie his emotions into the easy bite-sized packages that Jaskier seems to create so simply, delivering honesty like a gift to a lover? 

Geralt knows how to tear and break and hurt. He doesn’t know how to be gentle, how to fix what he’s torn, how to tell anyone how he truly feels. But, for Jaskier?

Gods, he’s willing to at least _try_.

The xenovox closer to his lips now, his mouth dry as he swallows and takes a breath. Jaskier’s name pulling from his heart and up to the tip of his tongue as he—

“Julian?” Another voice on the other side. A door opening, and Jaskier gasping pointedly at being caught. “Some of the students had presents for you. They were wondering if you’d be available to join us outside?”

“Oh. Oh, uh, of course.” Jaskier’s voice is all fucking _wrong_. If the initial sorrow had been bad, this false cheer and nonchalance is devastating. Geralt growls at the sound of it, at the fact that anything could make Jaskier sound so horribly depressed. “Just a moment, dear, I’ll be out in a bit. Just need to—”

The xenovox cuts off. Jaskier’s done with the conversation. Gone, finished, wandering into a group of friends who buy him nice things and call him Julian.

Jaskier leaves and Geralt sets the xenovox gently into his lap. The feeling of a moment lost cuts across his chest, tightens around his throat.

Witchers can’t cry, he’s sure of it, but he draws his lips into a tight line, all the same, scared of what noises might come out of his throat.

Time passes in the suffocation of silence— always silence when Jaskier’s gone, when he’s taken the light and colors and music with him. Geralt’s hands dig into the mattress beneath him, tearing through the soft blankets without his notice.

All he had to do was say Jaskier’s name. _Wait,_ he could have said as Jaskier prepared to leave. _I heard you._

_I always fucking hear you_

Jaskier’s a song stuck in Geralt’s head— every song Geralt’s ever known or loved. He’d ask Jaskier to play again— and again and again— if it meant he could hear his voice for just a second longer. 

Well, he got Jaskier’s voice tonight. It stung and it accused him of breaking the owner but, still, it’s not nearly enough.

These small doses of Jaskier— his songs performed by other bards, his name drifting on the tongues of gossipers and travelers— will never be enough. And, still, Jaskier thinks he’s too much? Thinks he’s too large or brilliant for Geralt’s world? He could saturate Geralt’s whole existence and still leave Geralt asking for more. There’s no such thing as too much Jaskier and Geralt swears to find and destroy whoever made him think otherwise.

Jaskier’s voice lingers in the air, even in the hours after his last words. Not even a goodbye. No further whisperings of Geralt’s name. 

By now, he must have forgotten he spoke so openly. He’s either sobered up or twice as drunk, dancing with friends as he celebrates the season. He’ll be back by morning— perhaps later, if he finds another bed to sleep in— and, in the light of day, he’ll have no reason to call Geralt again. And Geralt will be too cowardly to do so himself.

But in the cover of night, the shield of shadows and silence—

The xenovox is a steady weight in his hand. He lifts it once more. 

Jaskier’s gone. There’s no one to speak to. But that didn’t stop Jaskier when he believed he was talking only to empty walls and open space.

Geralt takes a breath and turns the box on.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

It’s… It’s been a long time since Geralt’s said so much.

The words come easily once he’s gotten started, though. It took a while to figure out how to begin— _“I don’t know what you want to hear me say, or if you want to hear me, at all…” —_ but the hesitation doesn’t last for long. He describes the room he’s in, the contract he finished— _“I still don’t think your song about wraiths is right” —_ the town, the people, the exhaustion in his bones.

An hour passes like this. Meaningless words with no emotion, nothing but an explanation of what Geralt can see or sense. He tells Jaskier’s empty room about the too big feeling of his own without saying why he suddenly feels so alone.

The moon’s an unblinking eye glancing through the window when Geralt finally runs out of distractions. In the middle of talking about the games he heard children playing earlier this evening, he stops.

“They were— They were playing knights and dragons. They talked about dragons as if they were nothing more than myths,” he says, his voice lowering. “At first, I thought it was childish naivety. Then, I remembered that not even you really knew.”

Jaskier’s furrowed brow when Borch first mentioned the creatures, his nervous questioning as Geralt mentioned the low likelihood of surviving the hunt. His uncharacteristic silences when the rest of the party planned and accepted the dangers of the mountain, sat beside the fire with his journal and pen as if that could hide how his hands were shaking.

 _“Oh, what, you’ve all seen a dragon before, have you?”_ Jaskier had said that evening, his smile dimmer than usual. Geralt had heard the tremor in his voice, had heard the fear in the words; he’d told himself it meant nothing. _“Geralt, will you please tell them?”_

His words asked for Geralt to tell the others that dragons weren’t real. His eyes, though… His voice shook and nearly broke, covered by a laugh.

In all ways but the obvious, he begged Geralt for comfort and reassurances— _tell me this isn’t the adventure where we die._

And it had been a long day. Yennefer had teased him with her new knight, and Jaskier was being a fool in front of those around them. Of course, dragons are real. Of course, Jaskier’s words were nothing but proof of his inexperience— proof of his humanity even as he followed Geralt into the world of monsters.

And, so, Geralt had responded with only fact. He’d ignored how Jaskier looked away as Geralt confirmed dragons as real. He listed what he learned in books and stories, never once pausing to promise that he’d keep Jaskier safe.

“I forget, sometimes, how fragile the world of humans can be,” he says now, his voice rumbling free from his chest— a steady landslide falling rock by rock, one by one. They bruise his lips, his tongue, cracking on his teeth as he shuts his eyes and pretends he’s not just speaking to an empty room. “But that’s no excuse for how reckless I was with you.”

Geralt’s free hand folds into a fist. Behind his eyes, he watches Jaskier’s expression crumble one last time, his very being collapsing into dust as Geralt had shouted and blamed and asked for one blessing, one—

“You shouldn’t—” Geralt’s voice sticks in his throat as if the words are too heavy for him. “You shouldn’t be the one apologizing to me. It should have been the other way around. It should have always been me reaching out for you first.”

Because Jaskier said that humans don’t live long, and Geralt chokes on the implications of that. That, one day, Jaskier will grow old. Or he’ll grow fatally sick. Or he’ll find himself in trouble and Geralt will be too far to help, too slow or unaware. There are so many things that can take him, so many things that can steal him, and Geralt’s empty hands accuse him of ever letting Jaskier go. 

“Did you know— you’re the first person to call me a friend and sound like they mean it? When you first said it, that’s when I knew that you… that you had become someone special to me, because I realized that I considered you a friend, too. I just— fuck, I didn’t think it would be something you’d return to easily.” Returning from Kaer Morhen, wandering down the path. Alone, lonely— Jaskier, then, suddenly running from the doors of an inn— _Geralt, my friend, you’ve returned!_ Witchers don’t cry but something certainly caught in Geralt’s throat at the title, at the smile and ease with which Jaskier approached him. “Shoving you away— every time— was easier than _feeling_ all the… the _things_ you make me _feel_. Like, like— fuck—”

Like, _now_. Like the thorns twisting in his chest, cutting across his muscles and bones as they turn with each word and memory. Like the unsteadiness of his hands, his breaths; or the too big swelling of his heart. He feels too much, too much, too much, too—

Jaskier’s not here, and it’s still not enough.

“I don’t know how to put words to what you do to me,” Geralt says through gritted teeth. “I just know that things feel right when you’re here. That when things go bad, it’s okay because I’ll still have you.”

He pauses, laughs at himself. Perhaps, once, he had Jaskier. But, now? Now, he’s nothing but a sinner confessing to an empty chapel, praying to an idol he cast aside. 

But, like an idol or figure of divinity, Jaskier’s image burns into Geralt’s mind. His eyes and smile and hair and voice, his fingers and clothes and songs. They’re wrapped into Geralt’s being, and he couldn’t begin to tear him out if he tried.

“I know— I know you’re not there. Or, I guess, I know that you probably don’t want to hear this from me, anyway,” Geralt says. He imagines his voice echoing against dark walls, snow tapping gently on the window like a stranger waiting to be let in. No one who matters will know what he’s said, but, still, he says it. “But I’m sorry. Fuck, of _course,_ I’m sorry.”

As soon as the apology flowers in the air, he can’t seem to make it stop. The words burst on his tongue, sweeter than he’d expected. 

“I’m sorry that I ever made you think you had to be anything other than who you are,” he says, suddenly desperate to make sure that someone or something has these words. Maybe Jaskier will feel it when he wanders back in, hours or days from now. Maybe the regret will linger in the air and Jaskier will know, somehow, that Geralt was here. “Jaskier— _You’re_ my blessing, and I’m just the fool who can’t hold onto anything good. And I don’t deserve to have you travel with me again but, if you want, you don’t need to ask permission. You’re— I want you with me, Jaskier. Always.”

As quickly as the words came, they fade— leaving Geralt dried out and gasping for breath. His throat aches but he can’t tell if it’s from the time he’s spoken or from the emotion growing inside him. He stares out the window as he catches his breath, wondering if Jaskier is somewhere he can see the same moon.

“I hope you’re okay, and that you have friends around you,” Geralt finally says, his voice soft as he reaches the end. His fingers twitch, preparing to shut the xenovox off. “I hope we see each other, or—”

“Do you mean that?”

Geralt jerks violently, nearly crushing the xenovox as he stands, flinching at the sudden sound of Jaskier’s voice.

“Jask—”

“What you said about wanting me with you,” Jaskier continues. “Do you really mean it?”

Geralt’s body stiffens, his breaths tight and quick as he glances down at the box— as though he could see Jaskier through it, could read his emotions on his face when his voice is giving so little away.

“How much of that did you hear?” It’s a stupid question but his heart pounds in his chest as though a monster’s appeared from the shadows. “I thought you’d left and—”

“And that you were talking to an empty room?” Jaskier laughs but it’s harsh— choked and wet and angry and sad and terribly sober. “I came back for a cloak, you bastard. Not more than an hour after leaving. I heard _all of it_.”

Geralt’s muscles tense impossibly further. Jaskier heard— the thought takes hold of Geralt’s mind like a fire through a forest, burning any other fact but this.

“Don’t go quiet on me now, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice does a strange dip before Geralt’s name, as though he hesitates to say it— as though he’s unsure if he can. “Would it be better if I pretend to leave again? Or… Or were you just saying it to say it? Because that’s awfully cruel, you know, to act as though you care and then not mean it, as if I’m some joke to you or—”

“I did mean it,” Geralt says because Jaskier’s voice is spiraling into something thicker, something that preluded the tears and soft sobs of before. Geralt would do anything to prevent that. “I meant all of it.”

Jaskier’s breath shakes, even through the weak connection of the xenovox’s spell. “Oh.”

Words fail them both but Geralt can still hear how Jaskier struggles to even his breathing into something calm, how he taps at the table— not stopping himself this time.

“I heard you, too,” Geralt says eventually, the silence beginning to reach out for him. It feels a waste, he thinks, to have Jaskier listening and not say anything. “I was— I was too scared to respond, and I don’t think I would have said the right things, anyway.”

“You seemed to know all the right things to say when you thought I was gone,” Jaskier says, his voice a little muffled. Looking down at his hands, perhaps, away from the source of Geralt’s voice.

“Yeah,” Geralt agrees. “I can’t seem to say what I want to you until it’s too late. Like I said. I was afraid.”

Jaskier laughs but it lacks its usual shine. “Of me?”

“Of losing you.”

Jaskier sucks in a breath, sounding almost like he might choke on it. “You were the one who asked for that.”

“And I regretted it the second you walked away,” Geralt says, knowing that it’s no excuse for what he said. “You deserved better. Still do. And I want to be better for you, Jaskier. I want you to be happy—”

Jaskier cuts him off with a sudden sob, a gasping breath that fills the air like a cry.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, frantic and certain he’s done something wrong.

“I’m sorry, I just— I spent so long certain that you couldn’t stand me. So to hear this— It feels like a trick. And I know it’s wrong of me, but part of me just can’t believe that this is actually you,” Jaskier says between shallow, distressed breaths. “I can’t even see you, Geralt, how can I be sure—”

“I’ll come to you,” Geralt says, more certain than he’s been of anything in his life. “I’ll come to Oxenfurt and I’ll say it all again. I’ll say it however many times it takes for you to believe me.”

“My forgiveness means that much to you?” Jaskier asks, almost like he’s aiming for a joke. Geralt, though, doesn’t take the easy out that Jaskier’s giving him.

“I don’t seek your forgiveness, Jaskier. I know I don’t deserve it,” Geralt says slowly. “But I do care about your happiness. More than— More than you know.”

Jaskier doesn’t respond immediately, sniffling and shuffling as he no doubt wipes the snot and tears from his face.

“You know, I—” His voice is small, but not timid. Not anymore. “I did always think you might like Oxenfurt in Winter.”

 _I’d like anywhere at any time so long as you’re with me_ , Geralt thinks.

Then, because he knows Jaskier’s a romantic and a poet, he says it out loud, smiling softly when Jaskier gasps again— a more tender sound than the first one. Geralt warms at the sound. He doesn’t want anything rough to touch Jaskier again, doesn’t want to hear him cry out or beg.

“I’ll leave tomorrow,” Geralt says, though the moon’s bright enough he’s sure he could get away with sneaking off tonight. Jaskier, though, would only worry about Geralt’s rest and his travels through dark areas. The human worried about the witcher— Geralt smiles at the thought. “Stay where you are and— and I’ll come to you.”

Has it ever been like that before? Has Geralt ever been the one seeking Jaskier out? It’s— different, but good. A certain sense of trust settles into his bones, the knowledge that Jaskier will be there when he arrives.

“I’ll wait by the gates every day until you arrive,” Jaskier says, the most modest hint of a smile in his voice. “You’ll love it here, Geralt.”

_I love you, Jaskier_

This one, Geralt keeps to himself. He’ll say it when he has Jaskier before him when he can hold him close and whisper it with no dread of the distance between them. Something like that should only be said when he and Jaskier are together again— the way they’re supposed to be.

For now—

“I’ve missed your voice,” he admits, delighting in the happy sound of shock Jaskier makes. “Will you keep talking to me?”

“Only if you keep responding,” Jaskier says. “I’ve missed your voice, too, you know.”

Their voices reunite as they both laugh, wrapping around one another until Geralt can’t quite tell whose breathing belongs to who. Jaskier’s cities away— villages, towns, mountains and rivers— but his laughter is here with Geralt. 

And Geralt holds onto it, promising to talk through the night if it means Jaskier’s happiness never goes away again.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment if you liked it! Thank you for reading!


End file.
